Rescue Me
by PlonkerOnDaLoose
Summary: They were having a Titanic moment. He was slapping her and kissing her and crying, "You're so stupid! Why did you do that? You're so stupid!" ... Sometimes the princess falls just so the prince can catch her. CB set after 2.15, angsty
1. PART ONE

**A/N:** would you laugh if I said I was watching _Titanic_? Again?

_Disclaimer: sadly, I don't own Gossip Girl. I don't even own Uncle Jack_

WARNING: this one-shot, though very vague, deals with a serious problem, so beware, my lovelies AND it's unBeta'd, so beware further, of muddled tenses and excessive use of commas. Hi, I'm Meg, and I'm a comma addict ;)

**

* * *

RESCUE ME  
**

_  
He can't rescue you  
Can't pull the demons from your head  
Can't lull you from your sleepy bed  
He can't save you  
From the plain and simple truth  
The waning winters of your youth  
He can't fix you  
From the powers that will be  
The hours of insanity  
He can't rescue you  
_'Rescue' – Lucinda Williams

It had only been one line, one little line. After Chuck had skedaddled off to try repair the damage inflicted on the board, after the shameless skanks put back on their clothes and strutted out past, and she was left alone with the toxic stench of debauchery and deceit, and one little line. She was already hurt. One little line couldn't hurt more. But then one little line became one bigger line at some party she didn't remember, to two, three, four lines with Carter Baizen after her Yale dream evaporated. Vanished like Chuck.

Poof.

What hurt the most was that she had tried to save him, and that she had even believed she had. That he would come home to her and lie beside her in the dark forever and after. Nothing leaves a scar like the loss of hope. So Blair hid the scar behind a great, big tattoo that was meant to be smaller but it got bigger and bigger until it covered her completely. But she wasn't addicted. It was only one little line. And, if she was, what the fuck? So what? Who gave a crap? It wasn't like anyone would care. Rehab might even give her something to do next year.

And it wasn't like Serena hadn't done it first.

Now she sat in Chuck's suite in The Palace, surrounded by people, but feeling like the only girl in the room. Through a forest of bodies she saw him kissing that girl.

Blair untangled herself from the leech's arms.

"Hey? Babe?"

She smiled, tight and electric. "I have to go powder my nose."

He was on the Dalton lacrosse team. He thought powder meant Max Factor compacts and the smell of peaches. He wasn't Carter Baizen. But she found some new friends in the bathroom. The zeros of Teddy Westen's credit card were encrusted with white and his fingers were yellow with nicotine. His eyes and nose were red, like the saddest clown. He handed her a rolled William McKinley.

"Vintage," she said, grinning.

Teddy didn't say anything. He was drooling.

She took the hit and pocketed the bill. Five hundred dollars and out of print. Not because she wanted it, but because she could. She was Blair Waldorf. She did what she wanted.

She staggered back out into the party. She wanted to dance and jump on the furniture and fuck nasty Uncle Jack right under Chuck's nose; she wanted to see his face and she wanted to see it fast. But then she didn't want to dance anymore. The ground shook and there were a thousand million suns, a different colours. She hit off something fleshy and moving and fell backwards, but another person blocked her. The ground came rushing up hard. Blair crawled to the wall. She wanted to go through it to somewhere safe but it was solid and all she could do was cover her head with her arms and pretend.

She opened her eyes and she was sitting on the couch again.

"I rescued you, babe," said Dalton. "You were crying in the corner. Everything cool?" He was baked, but he wasn't a pro, like her.

Blair could feel her heart beating. She could feel her blood, everywhere, suddenly hyperaware. It pulsed. It was like the _Jaws _theme, only inside her, and on fast forward. She grabbed Dalton's hand and pressed it hard over her chest.

"Feel it," she gasped.

He massaged her breast and she pushed him away. She could taste vomit.

"What hell? You said _feel_! Crazy bitch, are you HIGH!"

Blair backed away from the creep, spitting. Her heart was beating so fast. So fast she couldn't breath. The room was too hot.

She felt very cold.

Blair collided with something solid. The world was flat, and soft. She dug her face into the carpet but it was a magic carpet and it moved. She held on tight, working her nails into the thick pile. It was moving so fast, like her heart, that she got magic carpet sick.

"Really? Waldorf? On my shoes?"

Blair's heart was pounding too fast. She couldn't understand and the shoes walked away all by themselves. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the ride.

She was very, very hot. Blair wanted to take off her dress and go singing in the rain but she couldn't move. Her heart was beating so fast she was scared it was going to break her. Like a bomb, inside, ticking. She wanted to take it out. Blair screamed. She wanted off the ride.

She was sweating, all over, everything was so wet. And her heart was pounding in her head. She was drowning in heat and sweat and heart beats. The magic carpet was spinning out of control.

Strong hands grabbed her. Suddenly there was cold, everywhere, and she was screaming and thrashing and trying to get away back into the dark because the light was too white but slows hands held her. Hands slapping, holding her, shaking her.

Blair choked.

There was black and then there was Chuck.

"You're so stupid Blair! You're so stupid." He shook her, and kissed her, harder than anything, sucking the poison right out. He slapped her face, pulling her up into his arms. The shower poured down on them, gluing them together. "You're so stupid!"

They were having a _Titanic_ moment. Rose jumps off the lifeboat and runs to Leo because they're meant to be; nothing matters because love will save them. They were wet enogh for _Titanic_. And she was so cold. Her teeth were chattering.

"You're so stupid Blair." He was crying, hot, angry tears and that girl was nowhere. "Why? Why did you do it? You almost died. You're so stupid, Blair, why did you do that?"

Blair traced his jaw with drunk fingers. She was too gone for lies. She was Leo and he was Kate. She felt salt on her lips, and warmth, and choked on the blood streaming down her throat and nose.

Chuck wet his cuff and wiped the red away. "Why did you do that?" he whispered.

"So you could rescue me."

* * *

Okay, so this is a one-shot I fired out while watching _Titanic_. Because I am a very cool person. I don't it makes much sense but I kinda like it. I'd loved to hear your views. Thinking of writing a companion shot from Chuck's PoV. REVIEWS are LOVE

Thanks, Plonksie


	2. PART TWO

**RESCUE ME**

_He can't rescue you  
Can't pull the demons from your head  
Can't lull you from your sleepy bed  
He can't rescue you  
What can he do?  
Tie some ribbons in your hair  
Show you that he'll always care  
That's all he can do  
_'Rescue' – Lucinda Williams

Chuck Bass knew an OD when he saw one. It was an old secret. His father left him in Moscow to recover, Christmas of Sophomore Year. Carter Baizen dropped in, though, said howdy, filched some Grade A morphine and made like a banana. Sent him a postcard from Tahiti. Chuck knew what it felt like, when your heart beats too fast for your body, when it feels like it's going to come exploding out of your chest, like that fucking thing from _Alien_. He knew, because that was how he felt, everything he saw her.

And she lay on the ground, blood leaking from her pretty nose, her pretty lips white with foam.

"CHUCK! Oh my God, Chuck, do SOMETHING!"

There was blonde hair and lots of hysteria and Chuck shoved his stepsister aside. Blair's pulse skyrocketed. He laid a hand across her brow. Cold, clammy. He slapped her cheeks, but her pretty eyes stayed shut. The blood running out her nose was a thick, shining red. Chuck swore.

Her heart was going crazy but his had forgotten to beat.

Blair? Cocaine? It didn't make sense.

The fuck?

Life didn't make sense.

He bent down, sliding a hand beneath her shoulders, her knees, picking her up. Her hand rolled free, pretty fingertips dusting the ground. The party had died. They all watched him walk the Superhero walk, carrying the damsel in the distress, doing that saving-people-thing.

Serena slammed on the shower. The cold stung like a billion tiny needles, little teeth, but he ignored it. "Oh, God, Chuck," Serena moaned. "Blair. Honey. Blair. Wake up."

"Ambulance?" Chuck asked, tilting her head back to ensure her airways were unobstructed.

"On the way."

"Fuck, Blair," he ground into her wet hair, as though, if he spat the words out hard enough, they would go right through her skull, into her brain, and stay there, indelible. "Why?"

She opened her eyes, but they were dark and dim, and all around them pink water swirled down the drain, staining the grout between the tiny fish-scale tiles.

Chuck wiped away a fresh stream of blood with the cuff of his shirt. He was tender. "Why did you do that?" he whispered. "Huh?" – did he, Chuck Bass, just say _huh_? The things he did for this girl – "Why did you do that me? Blair, you're so stupid. You're so stupid. Why did you do that?"

She did that thing where she went all floppy in his arms and Chuck felt his arms break under the weight of her trust. Her head found his heart. He kissed the top of her head. Cold, clammy.

"So you could save me."

The paramedics had to prise her from his cold, dead hands. Serena held on to him in the ambulance, and he held on to the Blair, and she held on as best she could. Chuck wanted to hold on tight enough for both of them. He wanted to carry her. Rescue her. But he didn't know how. Then they pulled up and everything was flashing blue and red and they took her away. Serena cried on his shoulder and he was a brother. He slung his jacket around her shoulders.

"I should have known," she sobbed.

Chuck's face was wet. The shower, rain, tears.

"I should have known. She's supposed to be my best friend. I'm supposed to look out for her."

_So you could rescue me_

Chuck didn't understand. He wasn't a hero. He didn't rescue people. He watched them drown and drank scotch and said, oh, look, a drowning person. Oh, how original. Can you down it again, only SHUT THE FUCK UP because I'm kinda busy being miserable here. He wasn't the white knight, he didn't have a white horse, he didn't even fucking like horses, white or black or brown or fucking rainbow. He wasn't Superman. He didn't have a cape. He wasn't a fireman. He didn't rescue people.

But, for her, he would run into worse than a burning building.

He'd run into a burning building – but he couldn't say those three little words.

Chuck was no rescuer. He was Chuck Bass. Why couldn't she see that? Why could she see that there was no Supersuit beneath the white collar? There was no Nate lurking down there, waiting to be let out, waiting to do that saving-people-thing. She could rip him back, and rip him back, and she'd only find bones and dark, empty spaces. Why couldn't she see that?

They sat on hard plastic seats. Legs apart, elbows on knees, head down. He was still wet. His face was still wet. Serena had fallen asleep against his shoulder.

_So you could rescue me_

She had saved him, coaxed him back off more than a rooftop. It was only gentlemanly to return the favour. Chuck Bass was indebted to no one. But Chuck Bass was no gentleman, he had proved that. Couldn't she see, he _was _rescuing her, by staying away? She deserved so much more, so much better; someone who made her smile and laugh and held her hand and stayed away from rooftops. Someone who wasn't too busy losing himself to catch her when she fell. Someone who would rescue her.

Chuck wanted to, oh, fuck, he did. But he couldn't. He couldn't even rescue himself.

The doctors led him down nasty white corridors, the stench of disinfectant and luck making his eyes water. "She's in ICU, but she's stable. She won't wake up for while, but you're welcome to take a seat." Doc pointed to a chair. Chuck waited until she left, her cheap trainers flapping against the floor, and climbed up on to the bed beside her. He wrapped a stray curl around his finger, wrapped his arms around her, wrapped his love all around her, like bubblewrap and candyfloss and bulletproof glass and vests and armoured tanks. He couldn't rescue her, but he could be there.

He promised her, in the dark, when words mean more, when they whisper and fly like little soft things, warm things.

"I'll always be here."


End file.
